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EVANS'S
COLLECTION OF OLD
BALLADS, Continued
LXXXI.
"A MERY BALLET OF THE HATHORNE TRE."
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IT was a maid of my country
As she came by a hawthorn tree,
As full of flowers as might be seen,
She marvell'd to see the tree so green.
At last she asked of this tree,
How came this freshness unto thee,
And every branch so fair and clean,
I marvel that you grow so green.
The tree made answer by and by,
I have good cause to grow triumphantly,
The sweetest dew that ever be seen,
Doth fall on me to keep me green.
Yea, quoth the maid, but where you grow,
You stand at hand for every blow,
Of every man for to be seen,
I marvel that you grow so green.
Though many one take flowers from me,
And many a branch out of my tree,
I have such store they will not be seen,
For more and more my twedges grow green.
But how, and they chance to cut thee down,
And carry thy branches into the town?
Then will they never no more be seen,
To grow again so fresh and green.
Though that you do, it is no boot,
Although they cut me to the root,
Next year again I will be seen,
To bud my branches fresh and green.
And you, fair maid, cannot do so,
For if you let your maidhood go,
Then will it never no more be seen,
As I with my branches can grow green.
The maid with that began to blush,
And turned her from the hawthorn bush,
She thought herself so fair and clean,
Her beauty still would ever grow green.
When that she heard this marvellous doubt,
She wandered still then all about,
Suspecting still what she would ween,
Her maidhead lost would never be seen.
With many a sigh she went her way,
To see how she made herself so gay,
To walk, to see, and to be seen,
And so outfaced the hawthorn green.
Besides all that, it put her in lear,
To talk with company any where,
For fear to lose the thing that should be seen,
To grow as were the hawthorn green.
But after this, never I could hear
Of this fair maiden any where,
That ever she was in forest seen,
To talk again of the hawthorn green.
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LXXXII.
THE
WOODMAN'S WALK.
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THROUGH a fair forest as I went
Upon a summer's
day,
I met a woodman quaint and gent,
Yet in a
strange array.
I marvell'd much at his disguise,
Whom I did know
so well,
But thus in terms both grave and wise,
His mind he
'gan to tell.
Friend, muse not at this fond array,
But list a
while to me,
For it hath holped me to survey,
What I shall
show to thee.
Long liv'd I in this forest fair,
Till weary of
my weal,
Abroad in walks I would repair,
As now I will
reveal.
My first day's walk was to the court,
Where beauty
fed mine eyes,
Yet found I that the courtly sport,
Did mask in sly
disguise.
For falsehood sat in fairest looks,
And friend to
friend was coy,
Court-favour fill'd but empty rooks,
And there I
found no joy.
Desert went naked in the cold,
When crouching
craft was fed,
Sweet words were cheaply bought and sold,
But none that
stood in stead.
Wit was employed for each man's own,
Plain-meaning
came too short,
All these devices seen and known,
Made me forsake
the court.
Unto the city next I went,
In hope of
better hap,
Where liberally I launch'd and spent,
As set on
fortune's lap.
The little stock I had in store
Methought would
ne'er be done,
Friends flocked about me more and more,
As quickly lost
as won.
For when I spent, then they were kind,
But when my
purse did fail,
The foremost man came last behind,
Thus love with
wealth doth quail.
Once more for footing yet I strove,
Although the
world did frown,
But they before that held me up,
Together trod
me down.
And lest once more I should arise,
They sought my
quite decay,
Then got I into this disguise,
And thence I
stole away.
And in my mind (methought) I said,
Lord bless me
from the city,
Where simpleness is thus betray'd,
Without remorse
or pity.
Yet would I not give over so,
But once more
try my fate,
And to the country then I go,
To live in
quiet state.
There did appear no subtile shows,
But yea and nay
went smoothly,
But, Lord, how country folks can gloze,
When they speak
most untruly!
More craft was in a buttonn'd cap,
And in an old
wife's rail,
Than in my life it was my hap
To see on down
or dale.
There was no open forgery,
But
under-handed gleaning,
Which they call country policy,
But hath a
worser meaning.
Some good bold face bears out the wrong,
Because he gains
thereby,
The poor man's back is cracked ere long,
Yet there he
lets him lie.
And no degree among them all,
But had such
close intending,
That I upon my knees did fall,
And prayed for
their amending.
Back to the woods I got again,
In mind
perplexed sore,
Where I found ease of all my pain,
And mean to
stray no more.
There, city, court, nor country too,
Can any way
annoy me,
But as a woodman ought to do,
I freely may
employ me.
There live I quietly alone,
And none to
trip my talk,
Wherefore when I am dead and gone,
Think on the
woodman's walk.
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LXXXIII.
"Jacke Dove's Resolution, by which he doth shew,
That he cares not a rush how ere the world goe."
To the tune of — To drive
the cold winter away
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TO all my good friends, these presents I send,
Yet neither to
beg nor to crave,
For though some have store, and I am but Poor,
I'm content
with that little I have
And I'll ne'er for my want turn sycophant,
(Though many
there be that do so,)
But I'll honest be, love them that love me,
And care not
how ere the world go.
And though fortune frown, I'll not cast myself down,
But mildly bear
what doth fall,
Care will make me but worse, and ne'er fill my purse,
But the day
will come may mend all,
Then 'tis but a folly, for that to be sorry,
Which must
whether I will or no,
But impatience in rest, then I'll hope for the best,
And care not
how ere the world go.
For why should a man care, or drown in despair,
Though his
fortunes be ne'er so unkind,
Why should I be sad, for what I ne'er had,
Or foolishly
trouble my mind,
And I do hate to pine at my fate,
There's none
but fools will do so,
I'll laugh and be fat, for care kills a cat,
And I care not
how ere the world go.
To sigh and to wail, what will it prevail,
Or any whit
better my fare,
When a little good mirth, 'mongst friends is more worth,
And better than
a great deal of care;
Then I'll cheer up myself, for content is great wealth,
Let sighing and
sorrowing go,
I'll laugh and be merry, with a cup of old sherry,
And care not
how ere the world go.
Though many a chuff hath more than enough,
Why should I
repine at their bliss,
If I am content with what God bath sent,
I think I do
not amiss:
Let others have wealth, so I have my health,
And money to
pay what I owe,
I'll laugh and be merry, sing down a down derry,
And care not
how ere the world go.
I'll make much of one, for when I am gone,
Then what's all
the world unto me,
I'll not be a slave to that which I have,
But 'mongst my
friends let it flee;
And least there rise debate, about my estate,
When my head's
laid full low,
Or some knaves circumvent it, to whom
I ne'er meant
it, I'll spend it how ere the world go.
SECOND PART.
Some men do suppose, to go in brave cloaths,
Doth purchase a
great deal of respect,
Though I am but poor, I run not on score,
I think myself
honestly deckt;
Let others go brave, 'tis my own that I have,
And I think
they cannot say so,
And I like that I wear, though it cost not so dear,
And I care not
how ere the world go.
I'd rather go mean, than be like to them,
Which living in
pomp and state,
Maintain all their bravery, with private knavery,
Getting gold at
any rate;
Such conscience profess, but use nothing less,
Deceiving the
world with a shew,
But the time it may come, will pay such knaves home,
But I care not
how ere the world go.
Your delicate cates your hypocrites eat,
And wine of the
best do drink,
Much money they spend, but to little end,
And ne'er on
their end they think:
Low shrubs be secure, when cedars endure
All storms and
tempests that blow,
Let others rise high, but so will not I,
For I care not
how ere the world go.
For ambition's best scene, is but a fine dream,
Which for a
time tickles the mind,
And the hap of an hour, with such envy may low'r,
As may turn all
one's hopes into wind,
Then worse than before, they may sigh and deplore,
To see
themselves cast off so low,
When I all the while do sit and smile,
And care not
how ere the world go.
The flattering curs, that frown upon furs,
And hang on the
nobleman's beck,
That crouch at their heel whilst their bounty they feel,
Professing all
love and respect,
Yet when they do fall, they run away all,
But I hate to
dissemble so,
What I do for my part shall come from my heart,
And I care not
how ere the world go.
I'll wrong none, not I, but if some through envy,
Do wrong me
without a cause,
Or if me they disdain, I'll slight them again,
And reckon not
of it two straws:
Dissembling I corn, for I am free born,
My happiness
lies not below;
Though my words they want art, I speak from my heart,
And I care not
how ere the world goes.
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LXXXIV.
ALPHONSO
AND GANSELO;
OR,
Faithful
Friendship.
IN stately Rome sometime did dwell
A man of noble
fame,
Who had a son of seemly shape,
Alphonso was
his name;
When he was grown and come to age,
His father
thought it best,
To send his son to Athens fair
Where Wisdom's
school did rest.
And when he was to Athens come,
Good lectures
for to learn,
A place to board him with delight,
His friends did
well discern,
A noble knight of Athens' town
Of him did take
the charge,
Who had a son Ganselo called,
Just of his
pitch and age.
In stature and in person both,
In favour,
speech, and face,
In quality and conditions
They 'greed in
every place,
So like they were in all respects,
The one unto
the other,
They were not known but by their names,
Of father or of
mother.
And as in favour they were found,
Alike in all
respects,
Ev'n so they did most dearly love;
As prov'd by
good effects,
Ganselo lov'd a lady fair,
Which did in
Athens dwell,
Who was in beauty peerless found,
So far she did
excel.
Upon a time it chanced so,
As fancy did
him move,
That he would visit for delight
His lady and
his love,
And to his true and faithful friend
He did declare
the same,
Asking of him if he would see
That fair and
comely dame.
Alphonso did thereto agree,
And with
Ganselo went
To see the lady which he lov'd,
Which bred his discontent:
But when he cast his crystal eyes
Upon her angel
hue,
The beauty of that lady bright
Did straight
his heart subdue.
His gentle heart so wounded was
With that fair
lady's face,
That afterwards he daily liv'd
In sad and
woful case.
And of his grief he knew not how
Therefore to
make an end,
For that he knew the lady's love
Was yielded to
his friend.
Thus being sore perplexed in mind,
Upon his bed he
lay,
Like one whom death and deep despair
Had almost worn
away.
His friend Ganselo, that did see
His grief and
great distress,
At length requested for to know,
His cause of
heaviness.
With much ado at length he told
The truth unto
his friend,
Who did relieve his inward woe
With comfort to
the end;
Take courage then, dear friend, quoth he,
Though she
through love be mine,
My right I will resign to thee,
The lady shall
be thine.
You know our favours are alike,
Our speech also
likewise,
This day in mine apparell
You shall
yourself disguise,
And unto church then shall you go
Directly in my
stead;
Lo, though my friends suppose 'tis I,
You shall the
lady wed.
Alphonso was so well appaid,
And as they had
decreed,
He went that day, and wedded plain
The lady there
indeed:
But when the nuptial feast was done,
And Phoebus
quite was fled,
The lady for Ganselo took
Alphonso to her
bed.
That night they spent in pleasant sport,
And when the
day was come,
A post for fair Alphonso came
To fetch him
home to Rome.
Then was the matter plainly prov'd
Alphonso wedded
was,
And not Ganselo to that dame,
Which brought
great woe, alas!
Alphonso being gone to Rome
With this his
lady gay,
Ganselo's friends and kindred all
In such a rage
did stay,
That they deprived him of his wealth,
His land, and
rich attire,
And banished him their country quite,
In rage and
wrathful ire.
With sad and pensive thoughts, alas!
Ganselo wandered
then,
Who was constrained through want to beg
Relief of many
men:
In this distress oft would he say
To Rome I mean
to go
To seek Alphonso, my dear friend,
Who will
relieve my woe.
To Rome when poor Ganselo came,
And found Alphonso's
place,
Which was so famous, huge, and fair,
Himself in such
poor case,
He was ashamed to shew himself
In that his
poor array,
Saying Alphonso knows me well
If he would
come this way.
Therefore he staid within the street,
Alphonso then
came by,
But heeded not Ganselo poor,
His friend that
stood so nigh.
Which grieved Ganselo to the heart,
Quoth he, and
is it so?
Doth proud Alphonso now disdain
His friend
indeed to know.
In desperate sort away he went
Into a barn hard by,
And presently he drew his knife,
Thinking
thereby to die.
And bitterly in sorrow there
He did lament
and weep,
And being over-weighed with grief,
He there fell
fast asleep.
While soundly there he sweetly slept,
Came in a murdering thief,
And saw a naked knife lie by
This man so
full of grief;
The knife so bright he took up straight,
And went away
amain,
And thrust it in a murder'd man
Which he before
had slain.
And afterwards he went with speed
And put this
bloody knife
Into his hand that sleeping lay,
To save himself
from strife:
Which done, away in haste he ran,
And when that
search was made,
Ganselo with his bloody knife,
Was for the
murder staid,
And brought before the magistrate,
Who did confess
most plain,
That he indeed with, that same knife
The murder'd
man had slain.
Alphonso sitting with the judge,
And knowing
Ganselo's face,
To save his friend did say himself
Was guilty in
that case.
None, quoth Alphonso, kill'd the man,
My lord, but
only I,
And therefore set this poor man free,
And let me
justly die.
Thus while for death these faithful friends,
In striving did
proceed,
The man before the senate came,
That did the
fact indeed.
Who being moved with remorse,
Their friendly
hearts to see,
Did say before the judges plain
None did the
fact but he.
Thus when the truth was plainly told,
Of all sides
joy was seen,
Alphonso did embrace his friend
Which had so
woful been.
In rich array he clothed him
As fitted his
degree,
And helped him to his lands again
And former
dignity.
The murderer for telling truth
Had pardon at
that time,
Who afterwards lamented much
His foul and
grievous crime.
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LXXXV. "A
PLEASANT BALLAD OF TWO LOVERS."
[From a black letter copy,
in the Pepys Collection.]
COMPLAIN, my lute, complain on him,
That stays so
long away,
He promis'd to be here ere this,
But still
unkind doth stay:
But now the proverb true I find,
Once out of
sight, then out of mind,
Hey ho, my heart is full of woe!
Peace, lyre, peace, it is not so,
He'll by and by
be here,
But every one that is in love
Thinks every
hour a year.
Hark, hark! methinks I hear one knock,
Run quickly
then, and turn the lock,
Then farewell all my care and woe.
Come, gallant, now, come loiterer,
For I must
chide with thee,
But yet I will forgive thee once,
Come, sit thee
down by me,
Fair lady, rest yourself content,
I will endure
your punishment,
And then we shall be friends again.
For every hour that I have staid
So long from
thee away,
A thousand kisses will I give,
Receive them
ready pay.
And if we chance to count amiss,
Again we'll reckon them every kiss,
For he is blest that's punisht so.
And if those thousand kisses then,
We chance to
count aright,
We shall not need to count again,
Till we in bed
do light,
And then be sure that thou shalt have,
Thy reckoning
just as thou shalt crave,
So shall we still agree as one.
And thus they spent the silent night,
In sweet
delightful sport,
Till Phoebus with his beams so bright,
From out the
fiery port
Did blush to see the sweet content,
In sable night
so vainly spent,
Betwixt these lovers two.
And then this gallant did persuade,
That he might
now be gone,
Sweet-heart, quoth he, I am afraid,
That I have
stay'd too long.
And wilt thou then be gone, quoth she,
And will no longer
stay with me?
Then welcome all my care and woe.
And then she took her lute in hand,
And thus began
to play,
Her heart was faint, she could not stand;
But on her bed
she lay,
And art thou gone, my love? quoth she
Complain, my
lute, complain with me,
Untill that he doth come again.
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LXXXVI.
COURAGE
CROWNED WITH CONQUEST,
OR,
A brief Relation how that valiant Knight and heroick
champion, Sir Eglamore, bravely fought with, and manfully slew a terrible huge
great monstrous Dragon."
To a pleasant new tune.
[In the black letter copies; the words "with his fa,
la, lanctre down dilie," occur at the end of each of the two first verses,
and of the last verse of each stanza. It may be sufficient to intimate this to
the reader, without repeating them here.]
SIR EGLAMORE, that valiant knight,
He fetcht his sword, and he went to fight;
As he went over hill and dale,
All clothed in his coat of mail.
A huge great dragon leapt out of his den,
Which had killed the lord knows how many men,
But when he saw Sir Eglamore,
Good lack, had you seen how this dragon did roar!
This dragon, he had a plaguy hide,
Which could both sword and spear abide,
He could not enter with hacks and cuts, [and guts.
Which vexed the knight to the very heart's blood
All the trees in the wood did shake,
Stars did tremble, and men did quake,
But had you seen how the birds lay peeping,
'Twould have made a man's heart to fall a weeping.
But it was now too late to fear,
For it was come to fight dog, fight bear,
And as a yawning he did fall,
He thrust his sword in, hilt and all.
But now as the knight in choler did burn,
He owed the dragon a shrewd good turn,
In at his mouth his sword he bent,
The hilt appeared at his fundament.
Then the dragon, like a coward, began for to fly,
Unto his den that was hard by,
And there he laid him down, and roar'd,
The knight was vexed for his sword.
The sword that was a right good blade
As ever Turk or Spaniard made,
I for my part do forsake it,
And he that will fetch it, let him take it.
When all this was done, to the ale-house he went,
And by and by his twopence he spent,
For he was so hot with tugging with the dragon,
That nothing would quench him but a whole flaggon.
Now God preserve our King and Queen,
And eke in London may be seen,
As many knights, and as many more,
And all so good as Sir Eglamore.
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LXXXVII.
"SIR
HUGH THE GRIME."
As it befell upon one time,
About Midsummer
of the year,
Every man was taxed of his crime,
For stealing
the good lord bishop's mare.
The good Lord Screw he saddled a horse,
And rid after
this same scrime,
Before he did get over the moss,
There was he
aware of Sir Hugh the Crime.
Turn, O turn, thou false traitor,
Turn and yield
thyself unto me,
Thou hast stolen the lord bishop's mare,
And now thou
thinkest away to flee.
No, soft, Lord Screw, that may not be,
Here is a broad
sword by my side,
And if that thou can'st conquer me,
The victory
will soon be tried.
I ne'er was afraid of a traitor bold,
Although thy
name be Hugh in the Grime,
I'll make thee repent thy speeches foul,
If day and life
but give me time.
Then do thy worst, thou good Lord Screw,
And deal your
blows as fast as you can,
It will be tried between me and you,
Which of us two
shall be the best man.
SECOND PART.
Thus as they dealt in blows so free,
And both so
bloody at that time,
Over the moss ten yeomen they see,
Come for to
take Sir Hugh, in the Grime.
Sir Hugh set his back against a tree,
And then the
men encompast him round,
His mickle sword from his hand did flee,
And then they
brought Sir Hugh to the ground.
Sir Hugh of the Grime now taken is,
And brought
back to Garland town,
The good wives all in Garland town,
Sir Hugh in the
Grime thou'st ne'er gang down.
The good lord bishop is come to the
And on the
bench is set so high,
And every man was taxed to his crime,
At length he
called Sir Hugh in the Grime.
Here am I thou false bishop,
Thy humours all
to fulfill,
I do not think my fact so great,
But thou mayst
put it into thy own will.
The quest of jury men was called,
The best that
was in Garland town,
Eleven of them spoke all in a breast,
Sir Hugh in the
Grime thou'st ne'er gang down.
Then other questy men were called,
The best that
were in Rumary,
Twelve of them spoke all in a breast,
Sir Hugh in the
Grime, thou'st now guilty.
Then came down my good Lord Bowles,
Falling down
upon his knee,
Five hundred pieces of gold would I give
To grant Sir
Hugh of the Grime to me.
Peace, peace, my good Lord Bowles,
And of your
speeches set them by,
If there be eleven Grimes all of a name,
Then, by my
honour they all should die.
Then came down my good Lady Ward,
Falling down
upon her knee,
Five hundred measures of gold I'll give
To grant Sir
Hugh of the Grime to me.
Peace, peace, my good Lady Ward,
None of your
proffers shall him buy,
For if there be twelve Grimes all of a name,
By any own
honour they all shall die.
Sir Hugh of the Grime's condemn'd to die,
And of his
friends he had no lack,
Fourteen foot he leapt in his ward,
His hands bound
fast upon his back.
Then he lookt over his left shoulder,
To see whom he could see or spy,
There was he aware of his father dear,
Came tearing
his hair most pittifully.
Peace, peace, my father dear,
And of your
speeches set them by;
Though they have bereaved me of my life,
They cannot
bereave me of heaven so high.
He lookt over his right shoulder,
To see whom he
could see or spy,
There was he aware of his mother dear,
Came tearing
her hair most pitifully.
Pray have me remember'd to Peggy my wife,
As she and I
walkt over the moor,
She was the causer of my life,
And with the
old bishop she play'd the whore.
Here, Johnny Armstrong, take thou my sword,
That is made of
mettle so fine,
And when thou com'st to the border side,
Remember the
death of Sir Hugh of the Grime.
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LXXXVIII.
THE SEVEN
CHAMPIONS OF CHRISTENDOM.
A celebrated orator and
distinguished genius has pronounced the days of chivalry to be gone for ever;
it may therefore not be uninteresting to prefix to this Ballad, a description
of the habit of a Knight, written in days of yore, while tilts and tournaments
were yet in vogue, and "a thousand swords ready to leap from their
scabbards to revenge even a look displeasing" to a lady. The extract is
given from a book of unusually rare occurrence.
"The Knight ought to be all
armed upon a horse, in such wise that he have a helm on his head, and a spear
in his right band, and covered with his shield, a sword and a mace on his left
side, clad with a hawberk, and plates before his breast, leg harness on his legs,
spurs on his heels; on his hands his gauntlet; his horse well broken and
taught, and apt to battle, and covered with arms."
[See a
Treatise of the Game of Chess, printed by Caxton.]
In "the Book of Good
Maners," also printed by Caxton, in 1487, is a chapter "how Knights
ought to govern themselves," from which I extract two passages: "A
Knight ought to be a man among a thousand; good and honourable; courageous of
heart; true in his deeds; mighty and wise; hardy and prudent; and ready to
defend the right of his country, and of them to whom he is bound to serve; and
also of them. of whom he hath the governance.
"The Knights ought to exercise and accustom them
[selves] in feats of arms; and ought not to be idle in seeking and following
their pleasure, and ease. I suppose if a search should be made how many knights
know their horses well, and their horses them, and have their harness and
habiliments of war ready, I trow there should not many be founden."
I am indebted to the Rev. T. F, Dibden, for the reference
to "the Book of Good Maners."
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Now of the seven champions here
My purpose is
to write,
To show how they with sword and spear
Put many foes
to flight:
Distressed ladies to release.
And captives
bound in chains;
That Christian glory to encrease,
Which evermore
remains.
First I give you to understand
That great St.
George by name,
Was the true champion of our land,
And of his
birth and fame;
And of his noble mother's dream,
Before that he
was born,
The which to her did clearly seem
Her days would
be forlorn.
This was her dream; that she did bear
A dragon in her
womb,
Which griev'd this noble lady fair,
'Cause death
must be her doom.
This sorrow she could not conceal,
So dismal was her
fear,
So that she did the same reveal
Unto her
husband dear;
Who went for to inquire straight
Of an
enchantress,
When knocking at her iron gate,
Her answer it
was this:
"The lady shall bring forth a son,
By whom, in
tract of time,
Great noble actions shall be done,
He will to
honour climb:
For he shall be in banners wore,
This truth I
will maintain
Your lady she shall die before
You see her
face again."
His leave he took, and home he went,
His wife departed
lay;
But that which did his grief augment
The child was
stole away.
Then did he travel in despair,
Where soon with
grief he died,
While the young child, his son and heir,
Did constantly
abide
With the wise lady of the grove,
In her
enchanted cell;
Amongst the woods he oft did rove,
His beauty
pleased her well.
Blinded with love, she did impart,
Upon a certain
day,
To him her cunning magic art,
And where six
champions lay
Within a brazen castle strong,
By an enchanted
sleep,
And where they had continued long,
She did the
castle keep.
She taught and show'd him every thing
Thro' being
free and fond;
Which did her fatal ruin bring;
Far with a
silver wand
He clos'd her up into a rock,
By giving one small stroke;
So took possession of her stock,
And the
enchantment broke.
Those Christian champions being freed
From their
enchanted state,
Each mounted on his prancing steed,
And took to
travel straight;
Where we will leave them to pursue
Kind fortune's
favours still,
To treat of our own champion, who
Did courts with
wonders fill.
For as he came to understand
At an old
hermit's cell,
How in the vast Egyptian land
A dragon fierce
and fell
Threatened the ruin of them all,
By his
devouring jaws,
His sword releas'd them from that thrall,
And soon
remov'd the cause.
This dreadful dragon must destroy
A virgin every
day,
Or else with stinks he'll them. annoy,
And many
thousands slay.
At length the king's own daughter dear,
For whom the
court did mourn,
Was brought to be devoured here,
For she must
take her turn.
The king by proclamation, said,
If any hardy
knight
Could free this fair young royal maid,
And slay the
dragon quite,
Then should he have her for his bride,
And after death
likewise
His crown and kingdom too beside;
St. George he
won the prize.
When many hardy strokes he'd dealt,
And could not
pierce his hide,
He run his sword up to the hilt
In at the
dragon's side;
By which he did his life destroy,
Which cheer'd
the drooping king,
This caused an universal joy,
Sweet peals of
bells did ring.
The daughter of a king for pride,
Transformed
into a tree
Of mulberries, which Denis spied,
And being
hungry
Of that fair fruit he ate a part,
And was
transformed likewise
Into the fashion of a hart,
For seven years
precise.
At which he long bewail'd the loss
Of manly shape,
then goes
To him his true and trusty horse,
And brings a
blushing rose,
By which the magic spell was broke,
And both were
fairly freed
From the enchanted heavy yoke,
They then in
love agreed.
Now we come to St. James of Spain,
Who slew a
mighty boar,
In hopes that he might honour gain,
But he must die
therefore.
Who was allow'd his death to choose,
Which was by
virgins darts,
But they the same did all refuse,
So tender were
their hearts.
The king's daughter at length by lot,
Was doomed to
work his woe,
From her fair hands a fatal shot,
Out of a golden
bow,
Must put a period 'to the strife,
At which grief
did her seize,
She of her father begg'd his life
Upon her bended
knees.
Saying, my gracious sovereign Lord,
And honoured father dear,
He well deserves a large reward,
Then be not so
severe;
Give me his life. He grants the boon,
And then
without delay,
This Spanish champion, ere 'twas noon,
Rid with her
quite away.
Now come we to St. Anthony,
A man with
valour fraught,
The champion of fair Italy,
Who many
wonders wrought.
First, he a mighty giant slew,
The terror of
mankind,
Young ladies fair, pure virgins too,
This giant kept
confined,
Within his castle wall's of stone,
And gates of
solid brass,
Where seven ladies made their moan,
But out they
could not pass.
Many brave lords and knights likewise
To free them
did engage,
Who fell a bleeding sacrifice
To this fierce
giant's rage.
Fair daughters to a royal king,
Yet fortune,
after all,
Did our renowned champion bring
To free them
from their thrall.
Assisted by the hand of heaven,
He ventured
life and limb,
Behold the fairest of the seven,
She fell in
love with him.
That champion good, bold St. Andrew,
The famous
Scottish knight,
Dark gloomy desarts travell'd through,
Where Phoebus
gave no light;
Haunted with spirits for a while,
His weary
course he steers,
Till fortune blessed him with a smile,
And shook off
all his fears.
This Christian champion travell'd long
Till at the
length he came
Unto the giant's castle strong,
Great Blanderon
by name;
Where the king's daughters were transform'd
Into the shape
of swans,
Tho' them, he freed, their father storm'd,
But he his
malice shuns.
For though five hundred armed knights
Did straight
beset him round,
Our Christian champion with them fights,
Till on the
heathen ground
Most of those Pagans bleeding lay,
Which much
perplex'd the king;
The Scottish champion clears the way,
Which was a
glorious thing.
St. Patrick too of Ireland,
That noble
knight of fame,
He travelled, as we understand,
Till at the
length he came
Into a grove where satyrs dwelt,
Where ladies he
beheld,
Who had their raging fury felt
And were with
sorrow fill'd.
He drew his sword, and did maintain
A sharp and
bloody fray,
Till the ringleader he had slain,
The rest soon
fled away.
This done, he asked the ladies fair;
Who were in
silks array'd,
From whence they came, and who they were?
They answered
him and said:
We are all daughters to a king,
Whom a brave
Scottish knight
Did out of tribulation bring,
He having took
his flight,
Now after him we are in quest:
St. Patrick
then replies,
He is my friend, I cannot rest
Till I find him
likewise.
So, ladies, if you do intend
To take your
lot with me,
This sword of mine shall you defend
From savage
cruelty.
The ladies freely gave consent
To travel many
miles,
Through shady groves and woods they went
In search of
fortune's smiles.
The Christian champion, David, went
To the
Tartarian court,
Where at their tilt and tournament,
And such like
royal sport,
He overthrew the only son
Of the Count
Palatine;
This noble action being done
His fame began
to shine.
The young Count's sad and sudden death
Turn'd all
their joys to grief,
He bleeding lay, bereaved of breath,
The father's
son in chief:
But lords and ladies blazed the fame
Of our brave
champion bold;
Saying, they ought to write his name
In characters
of gold.
Here have I writ a fair account
Of each heroic
deed,
Done by these knights, which will surmount
All those that
shall succeed.
The ancient chronicles of kings,
Ere since the
world began,
Can't boast of such renowned things
As these brave
knights have done.
St. George he was for England,
St. Dennis was
for France,
St. James for Spain, whose valiant hand
Did Christian
fame advance:
St. Anthony for Italy,
Andrew for
Scots ne'er fails;
Patrick too stands for Ireland
St. David was
for Wales.
Thus have you those stout champions names
In this
renowned song,
Young captive ladies bound in chains,
Confined in
castles strong,
They did by knightly prowess free
True honour to
maintain,
Then let their lasting memory
From age to age
remain.
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END OF VOL. 1.
London:
Printed by W. Bulmer and Co.
Cleveland-Row, St. James's.
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